


Save your Carrots

by scrubbadub



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pre Relationship, christophe/gregory (platonic), duel ur crush, man, sometimes u just gotta like, thats just how it be!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: Alternatively titled, "Many Ways You Do Not Flirt With Your In Denial Crush".//Gregory challenges Stan to a duel. It goes about as well as expected.





	Save your Carrots

He cannot focus, and it is _entirely_ Stan Marsh's fault.

Normally, he wouldn't spare the American a passing glance, but there's been something nagging at his mind. A simple gesture, something he does every day, a routine he's fallen into day after week after month, and he only now notices. Why does he notice only now?

It's lunch, and he notices that Stan doesn't eat his carrots.

He saves them aside, sets them down one by one, hoards them away from the fat tub of lard that sits next to him each morning, insistent on stealing his hard earned lunch; he's not yet seen what he does exactly _with_ the carrots until today, though.

He saves them for his friend. It's… a surprisingly noble deed.

Not that he didn't expect Stan to find it in his heart to do something so kind as look out for a friend of his, it simply-- took him off guard. The sincerity of the gesture, the trust it takes to just… set something so crucial to a being, food, aside like that. He wonders, what did he decide to make that choice? What was his straw, the thing that made his decision final?

He can't shake himself from the thought, and it clings to him like dirty laundry to a wastebasket.

He's talking with his friend, now, and Christophe jabs him in the side with a fork. "-- you _rascal_, you leave my side alone."

"Then stop focuseeng so hard on ze stupeed American over there. Eat. We have more important sheet to worry about." Oh, that poor accent. What it does to his voice. A hard burden to bear for such a hard headed, stubborn, anxious little bastard of a mole. Ah, well, he's the best in the business for a reason, he supposes.

"I've no idea what you mean, Christophe. Perhaps you need to get your eyes checked. All of that dirt may have permanently scarred them."

"We will see who exactly here is scarred if you do not stop being such a pining little _sheet_, Gregory. Shut the fuck up." Him? Pining? _Preposterous._

“That’s preposterous. I don’t pine.”

Christophe snorts, an ugly, endearing sound straight from the throat, and shovels food into his mouth. How abhorrent. Can he learn some _fucking_ table manners just _once?_ “Zen explain to me what eet is you are doing right now. Eye fucking him? You take me for a fool, Gregory?”

“I do not _eye fuck._”

“Bullsheet.” He can hear the amusement in his voice, and it’s grating. 

“If you’re just going to insult me, I see no reason to be near you. Go take your lunch smoke break, you cretin. See me grace you with my presence publically again.” He’s _hurt!_ Genuinely!

… Perhaps not as genuinely as he’s pretending, but Christophe obliges, albeit crankily and noisily. “Fine! When ze world comes crashing down on your stupid smug face, Gregory, see if I will be zere to pick up ze pieces! Enjoy your late night televeezion and Ben and Jerry’s. Rat piece of shit.” Off he goes. Ohh, what a pity.

As Christophe leaves, as the distraction goes, he goes back to watching Stan. There- right now, he’s sliding the carrots over to Kenny. He remembers that one. The child who gave himself to Hell for the reversal of the apocalypse. He’s… never given it much thought or bearing, now that he thinks about it, and his mind skips over the thought like it’s nothing. What was he thinking about?

Ah. Right, carrots.

Taking a sip from his milk box, he sets it down gently and analyzes. They’re close, obviously. The knowing nudges and smiles and overall friendly demeanor they hold with each other is evidence enough of that. There’s a little bit of mirth there on what can be seen from the parka boy’s face, and Stan… well, he looks grateful, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a smirk.

It’s… endearing, in a silly way.

He wonders what it’d be like to have Stan by his side in battle. Would he give him the same smirk he’s giving Kenny now, full of mirth and slight embarrassment? He’d be far too rudimentary in sword skill to hold his own against a proper foe, so he’d have to compensate for the lack of skill, of course--

He’s not pining. What is this.

_Damn it_.

He’s no lovestruck fool with a death wish. He’d be no kind of ameteur who loses his footing in the heat of a sparring match simply because his other turned to give them a passing glance. He’s not some fairy tail maiden stuck in the whispers of yesterday, and he _shan’t_ become one now. If there’s anything his mother taught him, it’s that Yardales don’t quiver in the face of fear, and he shall stick with that no matter what.

He’s just curious about the carrots, is all, and their moral significance.

Standing up from his lunch seat, he separates himself from the table seat and dusts himself off, then storms over to Stan’s table. Almost immediately the main four of the group go silent, watching him. Kyle’s analyzing; he can see it in his eyes. Him and Christophe get along… fairly well, now that he thinks about it. Perhaps he should encourage him to try and go on social excursions with the man.

“Stanley. I’d say it was a pleasure, but I’m not fond of lying. I’ve a question.”

Stan just narrows his eyes a little at him, then shoves a french fry into his mouth, having stolen it off of Kyle’s plate. He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t seem to care. Horrid. “That’s kind of a shit way to start a conversation, dude.”

“Tactful as ever. May I ask my question?”

“... I mean, I guess you’re gonna ask it anyways, uh, go ahead.” Good. On to the point, then.

“Why do you insist on saving your carrots for Kenneth, here? I’d yet to notice until now, but every day you set them aside; would it not be more pragmatic to simply share half of what you’ve got instead of just carrots, or do you just… not like carrots?”

Stan’s giving him a confused look. He’d be tempted to say it’s a mix between frustration and just a smidgeon of the realization that his schemes have been noticed, but mostly confusion. "Dude, they're just carrots."

"Yet you feel the need to specifically save them aside for your friend. Why? What compels you?"

"I asked." Kenny pipes up just then. "I save them for Karen, she likes the little baby carrots, and I can't get away with stealing them from fatass over there anymore."

… oh.

"_Hey!_ What the fuck is wrong with my carrots, Kenny?!" They're so vulgar. Lord. 

"... Well. Ah." That was so _simple_ of an answer. It should leave him sated, but he's not satisfied. He wants to know the motivations, the reason behind his yes, what kind of interpersonal friendship goes so deep that he'd give his carrots for his friend's sibling; why is he not _satisfied?_

"In that case, Stan, I shall… take my leave?" He sounds… uncertain. That won't do. Not at all. "Not before offering you a proposition, though. I do think it'd benefit you."

"Man, come on, can I just- can we eat?"

He narrows his eyes. "I've not yet asked my question."

Stan rubs at his face for a few moments before letting out a groan, and slurps his milk, staring him down. "Fine. What?" … The milk slurping is going to get on his nerves. Abhorrent. That needs to stop.

"It's unfortunate but true that your combat skills are lacking. As a show of gratitude for your chivalry with your good friend, here, when you could very well have just let him and his sister starve," That earns him a dirty look. He's not quite sure why. He's just speaking the truth. "I'll gladly teach you how to spar. Of course, it _will_ be a challenge-"

"No way, man!"

"... Excuse me?" He doesn't like being told no. What in the world is Stan doing, daring to turn down such an offer? Men and women alike would dream of being taught how to properly hold a sword by him!

"Why the fuck would I need to use a sword? Like, in what scenario would that ever be necessary, seriously? Come on." Kyle nods along and continues to eat his food.

Ah. So they'll make a mockery out of him. Fine, then. He can play their silly American games.

"So you're a coward, then? Good to note."

"What?" There he goes. There's a fire in his eyes, now, and he can't quite pinpoint where the excitement in his chest stirred up from in his mind, but it's there, and feels almost like adrenaline. Just… sweeter. 

"You heard me. I managed to teach Mole how to sword fight proper, and he might certainly eat dirt for a hearty meal. I thought you to be a revolutionary, but you've given me no evidence to uphold such a belief. A coward indeed, _Stanley._"

"I'm not a fucking coward." Ooh. Testy. Stan's standing up, now, and his friends are watching along; Kyle is trying to intervene, but the little fat weasel of a man is keeping him from doing so. Kenny's watching intently.

“Then _prove it._”

He can see Stan warring with himself, with his desire for approval and his frustration at the situation- and ultimately, his frustration must win out, because he shoves himself up from the seat, balling his hands into fists. “I’m not a fucking coward, dude! I don’t need to hit you with a sword to prove that!”

“Yeah!” Kenny chimes in. What a _friend._ He bets they’re so fucking close. They must do everything together, share intimate moments, question the world- is he angry? No, not quite the right word.

Well. He supposes he’ll never figure out that word, then, because it’s not a word that _applies._

“Then I’m sure you’ll have no issue with proving that to me, then, _will you_, Stan?”

He offers his hand, and it gets slapped away. Ohh. So that’s how it’s going to be? He can play that game, he sees how it is. "How crude."

"God, can you just get off of your prissy little horse you always sit on and speak like a normal person for once? Jesus fucking Christ." He can spot the tension, smell it in the air, and as much as he strives to actively dispel conflict, he has to admit, this is exhilarating. A rivalry such as this only comes once in a lifetime.

"I've no idea what you mean. Perhaps if you studied a little better, you'd understand what I'm trying to say just fine."

"I understand times and places just fine. Name it." Wonderful! Finally, to the point.

"The outskirts of town near the train tracks, thirty minutes after school. Either you're there and best me and I find it in my heart to see if I was wrong about my first impression of your cowardice, or I was right, as is the trend- and I get to pick you out a shirt."

That catches him off guard. "Why a shirt?"

"Because I can choose whatever it says." Like 'Gregory is smarter than I am and I'm the ultimate knave'. He likes that idea very much. Stan mulls over it for a second, then snatches up his hand and grips it hard, shaking it. He grabs back with just as much grit as Stan gives.

"You're on, shithead."

This is a particularly enjoyable turn of events, and as he lets go of Stan's hand and turns on his heel, and mulls things over.

Why was he so worried about carrots?

The day passes by without much excitement, after that, though he does encounter several people placing bets on who'll win; he's unsurprised, but disappointed. Of course, the most likely reason for that is the capitalist antisemite's little schemes at work, trying to bank off of his looming duel with Stan- and as much as he hates to give the weasel credit where it's due, it's a marketable choice.

He feels sleazy thinking that. Disgusting.

The end of the day rolls past, though, and it takes no time at all to hurry home, Christophe at his side for the majority of the walk; not much is said, but the company is grounding, as it always is. 

He's not sure what he'd do without Christophe. Perish, surely.

There, in his room, on his wall full of maps and posters and plans, next to his stained little flag of England, is his sword. He grabs it, grabs the spare he keeps, buckles them both to his belt, and leaves. His mother will have to wait all she wants for him to return home proper.

It takes almost no perceived time at all for him to reach the train tracks, and there’s a small crowd of people already there, lingering, waiting for the inevitable: for one of them to fall, and for money to be collected on. What a gaggle of vultures they’ve become. How pitiful, the claws of capitalism, how deep they’ve managed to dig already, despite all of their youth.

There Stan stands, hands balled into fists, jacket thrown to the side. He’s wearing a shirt that has a banana on it.

Horrible. Potassium filled menaces, bananas are.

“I see you’ve arrived, Stanley.”

“I got here before you did, jackass.” He’s quick to quip back. Ah, good. Properly fired up, he sees.

He throws his spare sword at Stan and watches him take a step back in alarm, and frowns as the sword hits the dirt. He couldn't even catch it. Disgraceful. What a waste of legs and agility. He could do so _much_, yet he lets his youth waste away by, what- dropping fucking swords? _Vile._

"No matter! Pick it up. Show me your prowess, dearest Marsh. Prove to me that you're no boorish knave set to a laugh track. Hold that sword and, what was it, oh- cut me piece by piece? I heard that was the saying."

"God, you're so _fucking_ pretentious!" The sword is picked up and swung wide, and he parries easily, listening to metal scrape against metal. Stepping swiftly to the side, he chuckles.

"_With good reason._ Is that the best you've got? A wide swing? Amateur work, if I've ever seen it-- oh!" Oh, but he steps back again, footing slick in the mud and melting snow, because Stan swings again. He goes in with his own swing and draws blood against Stan's cheek and Stan steps back, clapping a hand to his face.

"What the fuck?!"

"Were you not prepared to battle, Stanley? Did I ever imply myself willing to hold back? Are you going to stand there, tell me you'll not fight after giving your word, claim yourself a liar as well? I'm _not surprised._" That earns a frustrated groan from Stan and he surprises him, then, charges instead of swings, and vaults him down into the mud, leaving the sword to the side. Shit. That wasn't on the list and now his shirt is covered in mud. 

"What the _fuck_ is your problem, dude?! You've been on my ass all day trying to get me to fight, and the moment I agree, you think it's some- some _Les Mis' shit!_ This isn't some ride or die battle, it's you and me swinging swords around because you thought it was funny to call me a coward!"

"Then _stop acting like one_ and _make decisions for yourself_ instead of letting your peers _rule you._" They're terribly close, now.

He can see the anger in Stan's eyes, the frustration, the confusion and hurt and something else, unidentifiable and alien, and he… Hm. He finds himself lost in his own myriad of emotions, lost in the moment, in the thrill of the hunt, so to speak; he's made a terrible fool of himself, hasn't he?

What would his mother say?

"Fuck off! God!" Stan climbs off of him and dusts himself off. The crowd is dispersing, disappointed with no clear winner, but ultimately relieved at the dismissal. They won't go broke quite yet.

"No! Tell me, Stan, why is it _so_ important that you preen in front of them? What importance do they have in your life beyond their background opinion? What _say_?"

He stands up as well, brushes dirt off of his pants, and sheaths his sword. It's not needed, right now. "Shut up."

"Does their opinion matter so much that you'd jump to your death for them? Starve yourself of necessary skills-"

"It's not necessary! You just think it is because you've got that whole weird ass revolutionary complex going on!" He's interrupted. Hm.

"... There'll come a time when you've no choice but to fight, Stan. I see it in your eyes. You're far more capable than most to hold your own. I'd rather not see you fall when it comes to a head."

"Well, it _hasn't._" He sounds… tired. That's new. "Man, can't I just be a kid for once? Can't we, like… not worry about whether or not we have to know how to swordfight for the apocalypse, or whatever the hell you're worrying about?"

"... Then what would you have me do?" He doesn't… What would be the alternative, there? What would be opposite to training, to preparing? There's no time for relaxing. Not when the world is crumbling under the machinations of greed and capitalism. There's too much to dismantle when it's constantly rebuilding itself. He has a _job_ to do, and he can't do it all himself. Doesn't Stan _see that--_

"I don't know, maybe- play some Fortnite? Let me teach you something for once … since I won." 

Oh, what now? "You did not win. This was a tie." 

"No, I'm pretty sure I won, dude, I got you all muddy." There's a smirk, there, still frustrated but amused, finding humor in his own olive branch- it's cocky and endearing and he can't help but crave more of that. More of those little half smiles, that twinkle in his eyes, the thrill of sparring. 

Oh, screw Christophe and his shitty little Frenchman words. He might be pining. 


End file.
